Untouchable (Untouchables, 1)

“We aren’t Bible-thumpers,” I mutter.

“Grace would thump me with a Bible in a heartbeat.”

“Someone should thump you with something,” I shoot back.

Carter smiles another one of those smiles that starts slow and spreads, drawing me right into his mischief.

“Can I ask you something?” I inquire.

He grabs another fry. “Shoot.”

“It’s personal,” I warn him. “I was just wondering… how many girls have you been with?”

“How many have I actually had sex with? Or that plus girls who have blown me, but I haven’t fucked them?” My eyes are wide, so he doesn’t wait for my response. “You know what, let’s just go with the first number.”

“So, I won’t be part of this count,” I state.

“Correct.” He pauses in thought, running through a mental list and ticking off fingers on his hands. I watch all 10 get used up quickly, then he starts over. Oh, shit.

I grab my Diet Coke and take a sip, eyeing his fingers.

“Nineteen,” he finally says.

“Nineteen,” I repeat, a bit dumbly.

“Wait.” He runs back through the count again, then he shakes his head and grabs another salty fry. “Twenty. I forgot Melissa. That was a one-nighter. Still counts.”

“Wow. That’s… more than one for every year you’ve been alive.”

Shrugging, he says, “It’s spread out over six years. It’s not that many. Could have been a lot more, but football keeps me busy.”

“Your first time was 13?”

He nods. “Two that year. When I was 14, I dated a 16-year-old. Then 15 was the year I got a little more active, 16 was pretty active. Last year was the highest. Not the best year to date Erika; I fucked around on her a lot.”

I grimace. “Wonderful. I love hearing that.”

“Hey, I assumed you wanted the truth.”

Nodding reluctantly, I assure him, “I did. I do. I’m just not terribly excited about the prospect of dating a serial cheater.”

“I am not a serial cheater. She was a pain in the ass. I tried to break up with her a bunch of times and she wouldn’t let go. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I wasn’t going to be forced into a relationship, so I did whatever the hell I wanted, and if she wanted to keep being crazy, then she would have to deal with it. Otherwise she could accept that I didn’t want to be with her and I could do my own thing.”

“Like the teacher,” I offer.

“Yeah, that one really pissed her off. Anyway, as long as I’m being honest with you, you don’t have to worry. Honest men don’t cheat.”

“Who cheats?” I ask, curious to get his viewpoint.

“Well, men who don’t want to be in the relationship, obviously. Bad communicators, or men too timid to tell a woman what they really want—clearly not something I struggle with. There are exceptions to every rule, but generally men who cheat are the cowards, the weaklings, the needy assholes. No one worth missing once they’re gone.”

His brutal dismissal of unfaithful men brings a relieved smile to my face. “Oh, good. I assume you don’t consider yourself any of those things?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to manhandle you, not cheat on you.”

I think I can handle the former far better than the latter. I’d dump him on the spot for the latter, but since he’s already expressed his stance, I see no reason to add that.

“Have you ever slept with your rally girl?” I ask him.

“Yes.”

I tense a little, but I nod, trying to stay grounded. “But you won’t now?”

“Of course not. That’d be a lousy way to earn your trust, wouldn’t it?”

He’s saying all the right things, and it makes me want to kiss him. I will refrain since we’re in public, but I do currently want to. This is a nice change from him saying all the wrong things, and me trying to deflect his missiles of impropriety like an indestructible human wall.

That thought triggers a rogue strain of doubt. My mind digs through the Carter files and reminds me that I know he has been manipulative before, that I watched him play Jake like a fiddle, saying exactly the right things to turn the tides in the direction he wanted. Jake walked into that classroom wanting me to recant my story, got me desperate enough to give in and give him exactly what he wanted, and Carter convinced him not to take it by playing to his weaknesses.

Keeping my eyes on the French fry I’m breaking apart, I ask Carter, “What do you think my weaknesses are?”

“What?”

I glance up at him, but he looks genuinely confused by my question. “My weaknesses. When you look at me, when you appraise me the way I’ve seen you do other people, you sum me up and slide my traits and tendencies into boxes. We all do it, it’s how we process people. In your opinion, what are my weaknesses?”